


Redemption

by AliasZero



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Comfort/Angst, Hurt!Sam, M/M, Top!Sam, bottom!Dean, hurt!Dean, post 9.13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-21 00:38:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3671010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliasZero/pseuds/AliasZero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post 9.13 "The Purge".<br/>Out of rage Sam starts to take revenge on Dean for lying and letting an angel possessing him. He uses Dean as his sex toy and Dean takes it as a way of punishment.<br/>Yet all they want is to go back to where they started. Sam wants to be loved again and Dean wants his Sammy back more than anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Our Shattered Hearts

Sex after hunting was almost as important as oxygen to the Winchester brothers. It was a way to get their adrenaline levels down and a way of making sure that each other was alright, both physically and emotionally. It was so much easier than talking about it. They would feel every inch of each other’s skin with their warm and big hands, reassuring their equally shaken hearts that “He is okay. He is alive.” The sex was a ritual for them to express affection, care, anger, fright and most importantly, love. They communicated without saying long, complicated sentences. They chanted each other’s name in between every heavy breath, and that said it all. They need their significant half to be alright and breathing, while everything else did not matter.

At some point of Sam’s life he thought the love and sex are two sides of the same coin. Now he would very likely laugh at himself, mostly because he was angry. He was angry at Dean, at Gadreel, at himself, and at everything on this planet.

They still had sex, if one asked, just that it was nothing like before anymore. Sam never thought he could do it with Dean as such before. Dean seemed to be such a huge and dominating figure since forever. For a very long time he would manhandle Sam whenever he felt like it. He would push Sam against anything damn surface he could get hold of as long as his mood was right. Sam loved every single moment of those times. They made him feel small, dependent and protected by his big brother, just like when they were young. He liked that feeling of clinging to Dean’s strong biceps and sometimes shoulder blades and let him pound into him, time after time. He loved being overwhelmed by Dean.

He would say the table was turned now, Sam thought. He bit his cheeks hard as he pulled at Dean’s short hair and forced him to tilt his head back. Shifting his hips slightly, he resumed to slamming into his big brother mercilessly. He gritted his teeth and pulled on Dean’s hair harder, but Dean only let out a soft grunt. Sam felt even angrier. He knew he was hurting Dean. He did not prep Dean much before forcing his way into him. He dug his nails so deep into the soft flesh of Dean’s waist that there was clear bruising shaped of his hands showing already. But like a child throwing a tantrum and tasting the limit, he did not stop there. Dean’s wrists were tied down tight and Sam made sure the knots were tight enough to leave marks that would last for weeks. He was angry, so angry at Dean that he did not care much. Yet he was even angrier because Dean just let him.

Sam deduced that the reason Dean was being all generous and tolerating was due to his guilt. He was guilty that he lied to Sam and let an angel possessed him. He must be. He had to be. Sam’s hip snapped once he felt the familiar tightness at his groin. Dean was shaking, trembling under him once Sam sped up to find his release. Dean did not let out a single note though. There was no whining, begging, pleading, or any verbal sign of distress to show his unpleasantness. It hurt. It hurt real badly because that was what Sam was trying to make him feel, pain. So much, so much pain. For one thing Dean was sure of, was that he deserved every second of it. He broke their promise. He broke their trust, again, so Sam was not giving him any mercy now. He shall take his punishment as it came, in any form, or way Sam managed to execute.

Dean’s eyes watered as Sam’s thick pulsing cock finally pushed into him as deep as it could go and found its long due release. Dean came as well, stripes after stripes of white cum painting Sam’s bed sheet. He could not cry though. He would not cry. This was the consequences he should take and he needed to man up and accept it. He let out a shaky breath as Sam pulled out roughly and he bit his lip when Sam released his wrists from the ropes in haste. Dean knew Sam did not want him to stay one second longer. He could feel the warm fluid running down his inner thigh and he squeezed his eyes shut at how pathetic he must look right now.

“Here.” Sam threw Dean his shirt and jeans.

Dean nodded and put them on. He almost fell face down to the floor with his shaking legs, but Sam did not even flinch. He was watching. Dean knew he was watching him suffer.

“Let me know if you feel like another round later tonight.” Dean mumbled and made his way to the door, half limping and half stumbling. He did not dare to meet Sam’s eyes. He could take whatever Sam prepared for him as an outlet for his anger, but he could not look Sam in the eyes. He was afraid what he might see. He was afraid there was not any last thread of feeling for him in there anymore.

Once Dean slammed the bedroom door shut, Sam gripped on the bed sheet tight and he threw the pillow at the door, making a dull thud that mocked his childish game of taking all his anger and guilt on Dean. He hated it. He hated sex with Dean now, because it was different; because he made Dean believed it was a way of paying for what he did. There was no eye contact, no moaning, no whispering each other’s name, no hot and intimate touches and affectionate grabbing. It was just quick sex. The more Sam did it, the more it hurt Dean and himself. He made Dean a stringed doll at arm’s length. He made use of Dean’s guilt and self-loath like he did not already have enough of those eating him up inside.

Sam pulled on his hair and buried his face in his hands as he cried like a little boy. He wished he did not say those hurtful words driven by his rush of anger and terminate their relationship as brothers. Now they were nothing, not brothers, not lovers, not even friends. Dean was just his tool for release now. He would not come knocking on the door and remind Sam to have dinner. He would not pat his shoulder as they bumped into each other in the hallway of the bunker. He would not even sit directly across him when they were researching. Sam wished they could go back in time. He wanted to be that little boy who stayed till late evening standing at the school gate, waiting for Dean to come pick him up. He wanted to share the same bowl of cereal with Dean but in fact it was just him finishing the entire bowl. He wanted to make fun of Dean and change the cassette tapes in the car into pop music. He wanted to be the spoiled little brother again. He just wanted to be able to love Dean again.


	2. Begin Again

Dean almost groaned when the warm water ran down his body. He kept himself standing upright by holding onto the tiled wall. He did not cry, or more accurately, he did not deserve to cry. After slicking up his hand with some cheap lotion clumsily, he gritted his teeth and bit back all the painful whining and groaning while bending down and letting his hand travel to spread his ass cheeks. He knew something was torn instantly. Digging his teeth into the soft flesh of his forearm, Dean went onto parting the stinging, reddish cheeks and slowly moved his middle finger towards his entrance. He squeezed his eyes shut and bit so hard into his arm he could already taste blood, but he did not stop. He muffled all his groans and grunts and he trembled from head to toe, trying to clean himself up by moving his finger into his hole centimeter by centimeter.

After some twenty minutes, small streams of blood together with Sam’s cum and the shower water formed swirls of pinkish mixture at Dean’s feet before they got drained away eventually. Dean kept bumping his finger in and out of himself to make sure he was clean and there was no residue left in him, just in case Sam really wanted a second round. The skin on the tips of his fingers was all wrinkly and pale, but Dean did not want to get out of the shower. He did not want to bump into Sam in the hallway. He did not want to try making conversations or discussing some stupid cases. He did not want to breathe the same air as Sam did in the same space. He felt like he did not have the right to do so. He did not have the right to be in Sam’s life. Sam made it very, very clear.

When Sam was done crying and tearing his heart apart from the inside out, he decided he would go check on Dean, made up some lame excuse so he would know Dean was okay. He wiped his face and threw on some clothes and he did not forget to fix his hair in front of the mirror. He actually cared about his hair a lot, because he knew Dean liked it. He never told Sam directly but Sam just knew. That was why Sam missed the way Dean ran his fingers through his conditioned, still slightly damp hair after a shower; or the way Dean brushed strands of his bangs away from his face while they were researching; or the way Dean tucked and yanked on the end of Sam’s hair as he took him from behind. Sam loved every way, subtle or elaborate, that his big brother showed affection. But he also knew he scared Dean back into his fucking shell not long ago.

Dean was always like a wounded animal, thought Sam as he opened his bedroom door and walked down the hallway toward the direction of the bathroom. Dean was strong and reliable and independent but deep down, and Sam meant deep, deep down, he hid a seriously injured soul in him. Dean laughed, smirked, lied and bluffed his way through life so that almost no one could see how much he was hurting inside, because he remembered every single case they closed and every life wasted on each one. Not that Sam did not care but he knew Dean cared a lot more than what he was showing. And with that thought Sam picked up his pace as he turned a corner. He had a sudden urge to see Dean, again, to make sure he was really okay.

Dean stepped out of the shower carefully, holding the wall just in case his knees chose to give out unexpectedly, he could still keep his balance. He dried his body off and wrapped the towel around his waist. To his surprise, as he pushed open the bathroom door, he came face to face with a flustered and panting Sam.

Sam took in a sharp breath when Dean decided to open the door the moment he reached the bathroom. He swallowed and froze at the spot, hopelessly trying to find an excuse for his sudden appearance while staring straight into Dean’s eyes. Oh god, Dean’s eyes. Sam swallowed again, they looked so green, but so, so sad.

“You either have a very urgent natural call, or you have something to tell me.” Dean chose to break the awkward silence eventually, “So…?”

Sam opened and closed his mouth a few times like a goldfish that has been taken out of his tank but nothing came out. Dean sighed and looked away, “I’m gonna be in my room.” He pushed his way past Sam and walked down the hallway in small, shaky steps.

Like he was electrocuted, Sam was zapped out of his confused state once Dean’s hand brushed against his shoulder. He turned to Dean’s direction abruptly, “W–Wait, D–D—De!”

All the air seemed to be sucked out of the entire corridor by this one, simple, single-syllable word. Dean stopped immediately, but he did not turn around. For one second he thought he got it wrong.

When Dean did not respond to the name except for standing still, Sam tried again, with a shaky breath, “D–De…”

He /did not/ get it wrong. Dean took a deep breath, and then another deep breath, before he replied, “Yea…?” He turned his head a little but he still did not dare to look at Sam, despite how much he wanted to know Sam’s expression right now.

Sam did not waste time. He knew he had all of Dean’s attention right now. He walked towards Dean in wide steps until he was right behind him, so close that he could see every damp end of Dean’s short hair clearly. Sam breathed out, and his nervous, warm breath made Dean shiver slightly. Sam licked his lips and leant down, as slowly as he could manage to, as if Dean was that hurt, trembling sparrow which hit on his window on a rainy day when Sam was still in Stanford. Sam remembered how he lifted his window, so careful not to make it squeak and reached out to cup the tiny, fragile creature in his big palms. Now, as he gently placed his hand on Dean’s arm, Sam felt like he was doing that again, trying to protect a precious, damaged life as careful as he could, except, and it made his chest tighten as he thought of it, that this time he was the one who caused the damage, or more so, the catastrophe.

Dean jumped a little once he felt Sam’s hand on him. His breathing hitched and he balled his fists. He did not know what was to come. He did not know if this was some trick Sam planned to make him soften so he could break him even more after. So he just stood there and held his breath, waiting for Sam to take his next step.

Sam went onto place another hand on Dean’s other arm. He could feel Dean tensing up like the string on a bow and that broke his heart. Dean was scared of him, scared of what he might do next. “De…” So he mumbled the nickname softly again, and let it resonate and sink deep into Dean’s ear before moving his hands closer to Dean’s bare chest. Dean was shaking visibly now. He bit his bottom lip as hard it was turning pale. He could not figure out what was going on. Is Sam going to push him hard onto the floor the next second? Is he going to grab his hair and smack his face against the wall? As he kept on worrying, Sam’s hands were already placed on his heaving chest, and Sam’s strong arms were tightening around him.

Sam wondered how long has it been since he last hugged Dean like this. He added a little more force to the hug and pressed Dean’s back to his chest. He could practically feel Dean’s racing heart bumping against his left forearm. And he bet Dean could feel his heart doing the same thing too.

“De…” God here came the nickname again. Dean squeezed his eyes shut and gasped when he felt Sam burying his face at the crook of his shoulder. “S-Sam…?” His voice came out coarser and lower than he expected. He was confused. This was not right. Or, to put it in a more accurate way, it felt /too/ right. Every time Sam hugged him like this, which was before Gadreel, before Metatron, before angels walking all over on earth, it felt like they were coming into unison, like they found the other half of the puzzle which fitted perfectly. With this thought, Dean’s shoulders finally started to relax a little in Sam’s embrace and Sam did not miss that, as he let out a soft, but still audible whimper.

Warm fluids were running down onto Dean’s shoulder, and he finally panted out the breath that he was holding in all this time. He felt like his strength was all drained because of holding his breath. He leant onto Sam more as soon as his knees turned wobbly. Sam supported Dean immediately and he hugged Dean tighter without lifting his face. Although he was still somewhat unsure, Dean would like to try. He reached up one hand, and placed it over Sam’s, which was resting right over his heart.

And that made Sam’s dam come down like a waterfall. His now obvious sobbing soon turned into some muffled, but loud child-like crying. Dean decided to give him, give them, another shot. Dean allowed him to have his back, again, and that lifted a heavy weight away from Sam’s heart. For weeks he did not how to operate properly because something was missing. Dean, the center of his entire universe, was missing. They did not talk unless it was absolutely necessary and they fucked only for Sam’s release. Sam was going crazy. Dean was crumbling down like an old wall. They were nothing without the important chemistry, the spark between them. Dean had to ruffle Sam’s messy hair first thing every morning, and Sam had to steal Dean’s food from his plate when they sat down for breakfast. They did not need words. Every little interaction was a gesture of love. Without those interactions, they were like walking corpses.

Dean tightened his grip on Sam’s hand and he let Sam cry while he kept his silent. Again, chick-flick expressions were not necessary here, because they both knew their fight were over. They were whole again; they were one again.

“So, …you want to go back in there and let me wash your girly hair, Sammy?”


End file.
